


I'm Rooting for the PBGV

by PumpkinDoodles



Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [53]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: A Very Darcy Thanksgiving, F/M, I just wanted to write a holiday fic, nothing dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinDoodles/pseuds/PumpkinDoodles
Summary: Darcy and the Very Chill Thanksgiving
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [53]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484168
Comments: 35
Kudos: 279





	I'm Rooting for the PBGV

**Author's Note:**

> *I own nothing!

“Are you home yet?” Jane said over the phone. Darcy could tell Jane was concerned, because it sounded like she was paying attention. They were getting remarkable reception, considering Jane was calling from Asgard.

“I’m home, I’m home,” Darcy said, turning the key in the lock. “I’m walking in now.” She was carrying groceries into the apartment. It was the night before Thanksgiving and she was all alone. Jane and Thor were seeing Frigga, her mother was visiting her Aunt Renee, and Brock had been called away for work. Not that Darcy _really_ celebrated Thanksgiving; she just bought a pecan pie and verbally protested all the yucky things about the holiday--Columbus, the destruction of indigenous cultures, terrible Black Friday hours for retail workers, and all the people pushing and shoving--by boycotting Black Friday and writing snarky posts online about Columbus being a racist and workers having to get up at four am so someone else could buy a discounted Kitchenaid mixer. She was fairly sure that her mom had gone to see her sister so they could shop without Darcy making fun of them relentlessly. 

“Okay, stay on the line,” Jane said.

“I will,” Darcy said, shutting the door and locking it behind her. “I’m in. Safe and sound.”

“Yay,” Jane said.

“I don’t know why you worry, this is a good neighborhood,” Darcy said. She’d moved in with Brock last year; he’d been a triple agent within HYDRA and then done a stint as a fake merc called Crossbones for SHIELD, before being pardoned. When she moved in, Brock had casually mentioned that he’d racked up lots of overtime and reward money. She was almost afraid to ask how much money he had--he was already older and better dressed than she was. She didn’t need to know that he was rich, too. It made her self-conscious of her scuffed brown boots, homemade scarf, and ten-dollar Coty Vanilla Musk. She worried they looked like an odd couple sometimes. He was a gym addict and she was squishy.

“Robberies escalate during the holidays,” Jane said.

“So does your paranoia,” Darcy said cheerfully.

“Shut up,” Jane grumbled. “I love you, you snarky little b.”

“I miss you and I love you, you aether-touching goober,” Darcy said back. 

“What are you going to do? Fettuccine?” Jane asked. They usually did fettuccine.

“I’m switching things up and making egg noodles in alfredo sauce. And I’m watching the Macy’s parade and the dog show, which are the only good parts of this holiday,” Darcy said.

“Last year, you said you didn’t recognize any of the singers in the parade,” Jane pointed out.

“Every year, we get older and they’re shiny new eleven year olds groomed for superstardom by Disney,” Darcy said, sighing. 

“I don’t know why you like that parade, anyway,” Jane said.

“One, marching bands are awesome, two, I love both versions of _Miracle on 34th Street,”_ Darcy said. “And you know you love Matilda and Dylan McDermott, too.”

“Fine,” Jane said. “I do love Matilda and his hair is pretty. But he’s more your type than mine.” 

“Don’t forget Eve Ensler is his stepmom,” Darcy said. “He has literal feminist credentials.”

“Really?” Jane said, suddenly interested.

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said, grinning to herself as she sat the wide egg noodles on the counter. “Oooh, I forgot the new season of _The Crown_ is streaming!”

“Ughhh,” Jane said. “I hate that show.” She had rage-quit the show in season one, over Matt Smith’s obnoxious portrayal of young Prince Philip. In general, Darcy agreed that he’d seemed too aggressively unpleasant to be plausibly attractive to a future Queen, but she loved Claire Foy, so she had soldiered on and been rewarded by Tobias Menzies.

“I’m telling you, the guy playing older Philip now is—”

“Still an asshole?” Jane said.

“Yes, but in a more believable way, I swear,” Darcy said. “I don’t know what Matt Smith was thinking.”

* * *

“What happened to you?!” Darcy said. She and Jane had hung up and Darcy was yelling at Prince Charles onscreen when the locked turned in the front door and Brock stepped inside.

“Sweetheart?” he said, frowning. She was so busy glaring at the screen, she hadn’t heard him.

“Babe!” Darcy said, pausing the episode. “You’re home early!” She practically flung herself at him, kissing him, then realized he had bruises across his cheekbone. “Ahh! You’re hurt.”

“Nah,” he said, “what are you doing?” He grinned.

“Yelling at Prince Charles. He’s changed so much since he did that semester in Wales,” she said, sighing. She dragged Brock towards the couch. 

“Oh yeah?” Brock said, looking happy, if perplexed. 

“Sit and let me snuggle you,” she said. They were watching on the couch—well, Darcy was watching, she suspected Brock was half-asleep holding his beer—when Darcy huffed. 

“Hmm?” Brock said. He sounded sleepy, but he’d resisted her efforts to coax him to bed, saying it was too early.

“Who says _whatever love means?_ What’s wrong with him? Emotionally, I mean?” Darcy asked. “And don’t say childhood neglect, because lots of way more neglected people don’t end up like this, lashing out at the teenager they married. I felt so bad for him in Wales.” She shook her head. Brock looked at her.

“You know,” he said, yawning, “you should be talking about this with Ma. She loves this royal stuff.”

“Really?” Darcy said. She had spoken briefly to his mother on the phone a few times, but they hadn’t met in person.

“Yeah,” Brock said. He reached for his phone.

“Wait, don’t bug her on a holiday—”

“She’s awake,” he said. His voice changed. “Ma, hey. Darcy’s watching this Princess Di thing, have you seen it?” He leaned towards Darcy. “Where’s this at?”

“Netflix, it’s _The Crown_ ,” Darcy said, before he repeated her words and abruptly passed her the phone. “Oooph. Hi, Angela! How are you?” Darcy asked.

“Honey, I’m going to scream at the television if I have to see Margaret Thatcher one more time! Where is Diana? This girl, it’s like Diana’s come back to life,” Angela said.

“The voice! It’s her voice!” Darcy said excitedly.

“Oh my God, yes,” Angela said. “And the one they’ve got playing Camilla is too pretty and young—”

“Even then, she’s got no real personality. Why are they so obsessed with each other?” Darcy wondered. “Horses and dirty jokes?”

“She doesn’t outshine him,” Angela said, more decisively. “He’s too insecure and can’t stand being outshined by Diana. It’s because she is plain, frumpy woman who kisses his ass—”

“Oh my God!” Darcy said. “Did you catch her calling him _sir_ when they’d been having an affair for years?!”

“Insecure men,” Angela said.

On the couch next to Darcy, Brock started to snore.

* * *

“You have fun with Ma last night?” Brock asked. She was snuggled up with him and coffee after the Macy’s parade. 

“Yes,” Darcy said. “We had a great time.” They’d done a running commentary on two episodes. 

“Good,” he said. He grinned.

“What?” she said. His expression was funny.

“She wants us to come for Christmas,” Brock said. “You up for that? Big Italian family Christmas?”

“Sure,” Darcy said, then frowned. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Nothing. What are we doing next?” he said, dodging the question. 

“We watch the dog show and then we have Alfredo. That’s it, that’s a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at Jane and Darcy’s,” Darcy said. “If we feel ambitious, we put up twinkle lights and maybe a tree. Disappointing, I know.”

“Nope,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “This has been really nice, sweetheart.”

“Good,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. 

“Can I watch football?” he said suddenly.

“Yeah,” Darcy said, deciding she could always put up lights. “When does football start?” He laughed at her. They were making out as John O’Hurley talked about breeds and groups.

“Who we rooting for?” Brock asked.

“Hmm?” 

“Dog show,” he reminded her.

“Oh, I’m rooting for the….PBGV,” Darcy decided impulsively.

“The who?”

“Petit Basset Griffon Vendéen,” Darcy drawled. “It’s fancy French.”

“You made that up,” he said. She shook her head.

“Nope, real dog,” she said. She kept half an eye out for it. “There it is,” she said, turning her face away from his neck.

“It looks like a mutt,” Brock said.

“It’s cute,” Darcy countered. “I like cute scruff.”

“I know,” he said, smirking and rubbing his five o’clock shadow. She liked his facial hair.

“Shut up,” she said happily. She kissed him again, planting a kiss against his chin. The stubble scratched her lips a little, but she found it oddly appealing. Onscreen, a floppy bloodhound looked mournfully into the camera. 

“You want a dog?” Brock asked suddenly. Darcy was kissing his earlobe.

“Huh?” she said. 

“You want a dog, we’ll get one,” he said.

“I want to rescue one,” Darcy said. “We could look on Petfinder. But we’d need to decide what kind of dog--”

“What the hell is that?” Brock said. Darcy looked over her shoulder.

“That,” she said, “is called a Puli.”

“It looks like a mop,” Brock said.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I'd never written a Thanksgiving fic! So I'm giving Darcy all my obnoxious Turkey Day & Prince Philip opinions.


End file.
